


Jackknife

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Series: Bughead Stories [13]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Challenge Response, Dominant Jughead, F/M, Gritty, Romance, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: Originally posted on Fanfiction.net. Sweaty, naked, curious, Betty's ready to find out what Jughead really wants. If you think he's going to disappoint, then you haven't read enough of my Riverdale fics. This is my second E-rated addition to the stories I've written for NeonDomino's Bingo Challenge on FF.net. You can find my entries of a lighter rating under the title "Numbering Their Days."





	Jackknife

“Can you think what that would be like, Betty? To be fucked with crystal clear abandon? Loose limbs wrapped around a tense, hot throb?”

The humidity was pouring in the windows of his father’s trailer like steam spreading into a mug milliseconds before the slosh of scalding tea. Jughead walked around behind her, lifting her ponytail to inspect the line of her neck from the back. When he pressed his lips against her damp skin, she shuddered, her bare thighs unsticking and re-sticking on the cheap wooden coffee table.

She shook her head to respond, though they had both already known the answer. Jughead wound her hair around his palm, the motion an imitation of bandaging, bracing for impact.

“I wanted you from the beginning, did you know that? Your short skirts in the fall, though the weather turned cold early. I wanted to tear your pantyhose with my teeth.”

Betty heard the metallic flick of a jackknife opening. Jughead wedged the blade under a loop of her hair elastic and twisted. It snapped. He fished the broken thing out like he was discarding a plastic wrapper. She felt fresh-out-of-the-box. She felt mint-condish. She wanted to tell him about the limited edition Christmas Barbie her mom bought for her when she was five, then wouldn’t let her play with because it ‘would be worth something someday.’

The rough ends of his fingers sunk into her hair like he was scraping together a snowball. It was natural, unavoidable, to moan. Her scalp was awake to a sensation like a dozen bees weaving between the strands, collecting her blonde hair like pollen.

“So?” she asked. She’d been quiet long enough to become aware of her lips when she spoke.

The knife clicked the table beside her when he tossed it down, blade out. Jughead tugged his fistfuls of her hair gently and exhaled next to her ear. His palms rubbed down her neck and over her shoulders like he was pushing against something much less yielding. Betty leaned back into the touch, not wanting to slouch or fold. She was naked and collapsing in on herself wouldn’t do her figure any favours.

Jughead’s fingers ran appraisingly down her arm and he circled her. His white tank was gone, but the flannel shirt knotted around his hips remained. The jeans looked as soft and warm as a security blanket. Betty sucked her lower lip back under her front teeth, then set it free. He sat down across from her on the couch and their knees touched. Apparently, he was going to ignore her question.

“It was the worst when you became a cheerleader. Not because of the skirt.” He leveled a rigid, accusing finger at her like the assumption had been waiting to spring from the tip of her tongue. “How was I supposed to date a cheerleader? A _cheerleader_ , for fuck’s sake.” He said ‘fuck’s’ so slowly, looking her right in the eye, like he was matching it to the speed of the viscus arousal seeping where she sat.

“You got me.” Betty spun her ankle, kneading her toes into scratchy carpet.

“ _You_ got _me_ ,” he corrected. “And now what?” He threw his hands up, glancing from her boobs back to her eyes. “You’re here for the Jughead Jones Experience?”

Betty raised her hand, draping her fingers over her open-mouthed smile.

“Depends. Do I have to buy a ticket?”

His hand came towards her and Betty raised both arms eagerly, like a lady in a deodorant commercial. One finger tapped at her side, high up, on the ribs, over the tattoo she’d gotten of his initials. Just black, like the hair in his eyes when he lowered his head to look.

“Why don’t you just sit there?” Jughead’s voice was nasty, but his eyes had a ‘meet me in the parking lot at recess’ hungriness.

Betty’s arms fell like tired wings. On the table’s surface, her palms smacked and squelched. Stamps on an inkpad.

“But, fuck, you could never _just_ sit there, could you?” Jughead dove for her, mouth first, mouth only, touching her nowhere else but where their knees rested against each other. Betty thought she might hyperventilate, if she could manage enough quick breaths to work up to it. She forgot how to kiss. She forgot how to stand. It was a good thing she was sitting.

It was simple and unusual and essential. It was black licorice. It was getting what you want when you never thought you would. It was waiting too long. It was moving too fast.

Betty clapped her hands to his face as if she was going for the snooze button. Her fingers trickled down like rain to feel his jaw working, prying her mouth open. His mouth was strong, the motions of his tongue beyond argument. She heard the knife hum on the table next to her as Jughead played a round of belated backstreet spin the bottle, flicking it between his fingers. _Touch me_ , she thought. _Touch me, touch me, touch me_.

He ground the heels of his hands into her skin, either side of her spine, and rubbed them down to the small of her back. Jughead’s chin nudged her fiercely as he rocked her mouth deeper into the kiss. He grabbed for her hips and her ass lifted off the table with a sound from Velcro’s wheelhouse. Betty landed in his lap, knees in a wide, casual slump like she was posing on a beach for Sports Illustrated. He held her tight, but still leaned in; she was trapped as though she’d fallen into an organic crack between his chest and his rasping hands.

The smallest press against his denim lap was electric for her. Jughead let her get her hands in there, though she only used his hall pass to struggle the knot of his flannel apart. The corner of her eye rubbed his cheek when she dropped her head. No doubt the heavier black liner she’d dared to ring around her eyes had been smeared out to her temple. She belonged on a tan stone wall with Egyptian queens.

He bit her just beneath her jaw and Betty gave in, dragging herself over the stiff swell he was offering up like a wave to a surfing addict. Jughead’s torso contorted as he flipped her onto her back, laying her lengthwise down the couch cushions. She picked at the soft sleeves of his untied shirt and sent it fluttering to the floor.

Jughead’s tongue found her, up between the legs, the whole flat of it at once. He shaped her slick entrance and puffed, sensitive clit. Betty’s stomach muscles quivered and she fought against the decrepit squishiness of the cushions to get up on her elbows and watch him. He closed his teeth around her and sucked. Her voice warbled towards a scream. Jughead tilted her hips up on one side to slap her sharply on the ass then redoubled the precise circling of his tongue until she came, soaking and heaving.

Betty wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, which were wet. She let her head fall back to horizontal. The overwhelmed tears she didn’t catch up with were already lukewarm in her hair. Jughead leaned over her, tipping her from side to side when his fists pummeled into the cushions. He kissed her, hard and closed-mouthed. His face moved away and Betty panted her exhale. Jughead squeezed one of her breasts to immobilize it while her lungs recovered, her ribcage on hydraulics. He edged her nipple with his teeth, sweeping his hands around the curves of her breasts as if to paint them.

Betty watched the ceiling like she was admiring a celestial spectacle, weaving her fingers in and out of his thick dark hair. He pulled back, then gave in and dropped his head to lick luxuriantly over her nipples. She wanted him again, though her legs were limp and tingled like static shock. She felt down her body to his hands resting atop her hip bones and pulled one over to the glossy place between her thighs. Jughead didn’t wait for her; two fingers were stuffed up inside and curled, hooking her. Betty wasn’t sure whether she was the catch or the bait. He sat back, kneeling and looking like _he_ was the catch. She pressed her thumb to his sternum and stroked down, bumping over his abs to the tarnished button of his jeans.

He took his hand away too and Betty swatted his stomach, backhand. Jughead grinned and grabbed her wrist, throwing it down over her head. Persistent, she reached for him with her other hand, so he gripped it too, brought it to her chest, and contracted his fingers over hers, forcing her into caging her breast.

“You can keep yourself busy for a minute, can’t you?” He asked like there was no other option.

Spread out under his stare, Betty traced her smooth skin, orbiting her nipple until her arousal clung to both ticklishness and clenching desperation at once, like a strip of double-sided tape. Jughead, her audience, gratified her with a groan, then flicked his button open and jerked down his zipper. Like air, his erection nudged forward to occupy the expanded space. Like air, she craved the way it would fill her.

He worked the layers down to his knees, then let himself crush onto her, a teambuilding trust fall. Jughead’s body slid up the fairer stretch of hers. Betty pushed at his jeans with her feet until he was free. He pressed his nose to her skin and dragged his lips up her throat. His mouth was open so she could hear the thick, horny way he breathed.

His pressed into her, spreading her with his fingers and running the head of his cock in their wake. Betty kept angling her hips for him, but he toyed with her.

“You don’t know what you want,” he whispered into her hair.

Betty went to argue, but Jughead laid one finger to her lips. She arched her back to influence him, to let him know she got it. He was taking his time.

“But I know what _I_ want.” He turned his head a little and she felt his teeth against her cheek when he smiled. “And that’s why you came. You’re _dying_ to know what I want.”

Jughead lurched inside her, lighting her up with every spot he hit, connecting like he was going for a pinball high score. Betty’s knees jumped up to hang over his hips, her head tossing to the side. He caught her bottom lip, her ear, with his teeth, then smacked their palms together above her head. Their fingers linked with a feeling of permanence and Betty sighed. Finally, a sign that he meant it.

He bucked up into her, on her, friction inside and out. Betty bent her wrist back to touch Jughead’s bare chest. His heart was clenching and pulsing to the rhythm of the muscles she had closed around his dick. She was suffocating, sunk back into the couch while Jughead laid her out and the humidity flung itself, sticky and insistent, on his tensing back. Betty knocked her hips into his until it felt so automatic that she didn’t think she could stop.

Jughead tunneled his forearm under the back of her neck, propping her up. When she looked in his wild eyes, he held her hand even tighter in the grip they shared above her head. He kissed her, started to release her, then manipulated her mouth even more persuasively. Betty clawed at his chest before smoothing her palm down to his abdomen. His sweat and his scent were all she could smell.

Betty started to tremble. To start, it was timid, like a child’s first handshake, but quickly it became an untameable quake. Jughead rubbed at her with his hips from the outside, pulling her clit into a desirous burn. She snapped her hand out of their hold, encircling his waist with both arms and shout-sobbing into the bend of his neck and shoulder.

Nothing would obey her. Her knees weakened so that her legs dropped. Her hips stopped pitching from one thrust to the next. She couldn’t make her eyes open or her teeth unclench. She was baring down on her orgasm at light speed and Jughead just yanked her up in his arms, slanting his weight towards his upper body, and loosed that tethered, black-clad boy who had stared at her with hot eyes in the hall at school for far too long, driving into her until they were both shuddering and couldn’t go on.

She moaned into his ear as she climaxed, but he still had energy enough to murmur her name back:

“ _Betty_.”

“Betty.”

“ _Betty_.”

“Sorry!” Betty smiled brightly around the dining room table. “I must have been daydreaming.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes then nodded towards the butter dish sitting at Betty’s elbow. Betty picked it up and passed it across the table to Jughead’s father because his eyes were the only ones that looked expectant.

“It’s so nice we were able to do this this week.” Alice smiled intimidatingly around the table. Betty couldn’t match her mother on false enthusiasm for family dinners.

Instead, she reached sideways under the table. Jughead, next to her, was the picture of a well-mannered boyfriend over at his girlfriend’s house for dinner on a Thursday. He offered his outstretched hand to be held, but Betty darted past it, squeezing his upper thigh. The _ting_ of his fork hitting his plate was deafening.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this story was: (Trope) Just a Dream. Obviously, stating that at the beginning would've been a spoiler.


End file.
